


The Marks Left on a Soul

by stileskolpath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Tumblr Post, Derek Loves Stiles, M/M, Mama Stilinski Feels, Minor Angst, Stiles Loves Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stileskolpath/pseuds/stileskolpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There will always be a hole in Stiles' life after his mom died. While it will never be completely filled, a certain brooding werewolf tirelessly works to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything That's Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a humble collection of stories revolving around the memories of Stiles' mom before she died and the Sterek relationship. Each chapter is it's own, self-contained ficlet. All at the moment are based on prompts or fanart that appeared on my tumblr dash.
> 
> Links to each post will be provided in the notes at the end of the work.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' mom used to make him stuffed animals. He even gave it a try himself once. But it didn't turn out the way he wanted.
> 
> That's why you find someone to help you fix it.

It is one vice. He is allowed one small, trauma-induced behavior, given what he has been through.

So what if he has trouble sleeping every now and then, and finds the small, plush wolf in the back of his closet to hold with him under the sheets. Or when he has a really shitty day, and just feels like he is alone. more so since the Sheriff was taken.

When it is pressed to his chest, and he can breathe in the scent of the fabric, it smells like home. Sure, it is old. Pieces of it are missing, and the edges are frayed, but it still reminds Stiles of her and all the things she did before she died.

\--

Stiles' mom used to sew. When his dad was first starting out as a deputy, and Stiles was only a kid, she would pass the time by making small toys for her son. Little things for him to play with. Sure, she could go buy them from a store, but they just didn't feel the same.

So she would buy stuffing, and fabric, and set out to make Stiles an animal. A fish, a bird, a rabbit, with big floppy ears, an owl, over the years, she made several. And with each one, she got better. They became more intricate, more beautiful, and her son loved them more and more.

He loved them so much that he wanted to try and make one himself. So she sat him down next to her chair, and showed him how to do it. Stiles was six at the time. His attention span wasn't great, and she figured he would get bored and go running off to fight dragons or play with his legos after a while.

But he sat there, next to her chair, determined to see his little project through. After a while, she turned to him and asked,

"Whatcha making there, little man?" Her tone was always nothing if not loving.

Stiles was frustrated, and he gave a little sigh that seemed to emanate from a person much older than he was. "It was supposed to be a wolf... But it's all sloppy." He held it up for her to inspect, a little frown on his little face.

"It's so cute," she gasped, kissing her son on the forehead, admiring the misshapen, little, vaguely animal-shaped ball of partially-stuffed fabric as if it were made by Michelangelo. She wasn't indulging Stiles, she just wanted to see him smile. For some reason, it didn't happen that often. His face lit up like she hoped, pride radiating from his little smile. "What are you going to call him?" She asked, sincerely wanting to know.

"Nothing. He isn't finished yet." Stiles moved to take the little animal back from his mother's admiring hands, his little smile becoming a determined expression. She didn't know it, but it was a look that would come to his face many times throughout his interesting life. And she knew Stiles would lead an interesting life, indeed.

"Little man, why don't you go clean your room, your dad will be home soon, and you know how he is..." She embellished. It was a shameless ploy to distract her son, as she knew full well he would go and attempt the task set before him, but ultimately get distracted and end up in his own little imaginary world. "I'll take wolfie here, and hold on to him until you finish."

"Okay," he sighed, setting the small work in progress on the arm of the chair in which she was sitting, and ran off to his room. She picked up the little wolf and set to work. She almost had it finished a few weeks later when she went to the doctor's for her follow-up visit.

\--

It had been another shitty day. Well, they all kind of were these days. Ever since the hospital. Stiles got in, walked up the stairs of the empty house to his room, and set down his bag by the corner of his desk. He opened his closet and pushed his hanging flannel shirts aside. On the shelf behind them was the little wolf.

He picked it up and held it to his chest, bending his head down to smell the stale fabric, closing his eyes to try and catch a whiff of the memories that usually came with it. It was grey along the top of its head, ears and back, with white legs, tail, nose, and belly. It always made Stiles both happy and sad when he touched it, feeling the old seams that he tried to join when he was six, sitting by her chair, and the new ones that his mom had sewn to make the little wolf whole.

She had kept all of his original, rough work, only reinforcing it at points or adding to it, never removing it. The only part she hadn't done was sew on the bushy tail. It matched the faux-hair the rest of the wolf had, but it was longer and was shaped to look like an actual wolf's tail, right down to the curve and everything. Stiles had finished it as best as he could when he found it after she died.

But time had not been kind to it. Almost all of Stiles' seams were ripping, exposing the fluffy white stuffing that gave the little canine it's shape. The tail was nearly coming off, and an eye had loosened at some point over the past year. The fabric and faux-fur was rough and touch-worn together from use, and it smelled of mothballs.

But Stiles loved it anyway, because it made him less lonely. The little wolf helped him sleep some nights, and others it just watched over him. He always thought of his mom when he looked at it.

He sat down on the bed, kicked his shoes off, and scooted back onto the mattress, absentmindedly stroking the wolf as he curled up. His eyes became unfocused, and he drifted off to a world of quiet contemplation, which eventually gave way to sleep.

When he awoke, Stiles was still in the same position, but covered by a blanket. He turned, and was surprised to see a different wolf sitting on the edge of the bed, holding something small in one hand while another fiddled with it quickly, arm extending outward as it pulled thread and needle through something, and quickly brought it back to the object.

"Derek?" Stiles' sleepy voice broke with grogginess.

"Hm?" Was the quick response.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes with the back of one knuckle, and sat up to look at the broad back of the werewolf sitting on his bed.

"I came to check on you." Derek had been doing that a lot since Stiles' dad went missing. Stiles should be expecting it, since he left his window perpetually unlocked anymore, but he never really did. Derek kept doing whatever he was doing as he answered.

"I figured." Stiles regarded the window, which was half-open still from what he guessed was the werewolf's entry. He looked back at Derek, and watched as he, wait, he thought, was Derek sewing?

"What are you- What are you doing?"

"Fixing something." Stiles scooted forward to sit next to the alpha. He was surprised to see the little wolf in Derek's left hand while he stitched a damaged seam back together with his right. He had also re-attached the tail, the eye, and closed the rest of the fraying seams. He seemed to be finishing up the last one. His eyes were glued to the stuffed animal in concentration as he did it. His seam was almost perfect.

Stiles was torn between embarrassment and longing. All he managed to get out was "I didn't know you sewed."

"I don't."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Trying to fix it." He gestured at the wolf with the free hand. But Stiles got the sense that he wasn't just talking about the small, plush toy anymore.

"He has a name, you know."

"Oh? Do tell." He seemed legitimately interested, especially after he tied off the thread and cinched it tight against the seam.

"Yeah, he is my Sourwolf. My mom helped me make him back before she died." Derek seemed to stop mid-thought. He didn't turn his head slowly to look at Stiles, or change his usual scowl to one of concerned surprise. He just kind of sat there, staring down at the little wolf, knowingly, understandingly. Stiles leaned a head on his shoulder absentmindedly. "You didn't have to, though. It is just a stupid little broken toy," Stiles said in an attempt to hide the fact that Derek probably caught him sleeping with it.

"Well, even more of a reason for someone to take care of him." Derek said quietly to no one in particular. He handed the plush little animal back to Stiles, who cradled him between his forearms and his chest.

Stiles smiled briefly. Because he was pretty sure Derek wasn't talking about the wolf anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! I really appreciate it!
> 
> -Stiles Kolpath


	2. French Toast and Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles had a tradition on Sunday mornings before his mom died.
> 
> Some things just don't change, even after the pain goes away.

Stiles always had trouble remembering some things his mom did. But he never forgot Sunday mornings. They were always his favorite. Because that was when she made french toast.

Rather, that was when they made it. Together. Stiles would always get up too early (because let's face it, he always had too much energy), and rush to wake his mom up.

Groggily she would sit up as he pleaded with her to get out of bed. She couldn't even be angry with him for waking her up so early. When Stiles was excited, it was like it was Christmas and his birthday all wrapped up into one. HIs happiness was infectious. Through sleepy eyes and frazzled hair, she would sweep him up into her arms and kiss him on the forehead, or tickle him and listen to him laugh just to hear the sound of it.

She would make him wait while she took a shower, and the few minutes always seemed like hours. So he would scamper to the kitchen to get out the bowls and pans that they would need, usually way too many while he waited.

Then when she would come out to join her young son, trying to grab a frying pan that was bigger than his head from the cupboard, she would laugh, and help him, grabbing a chair from the table for him to stand on at the counter next to her. The morning sun would stream through the window and Stiles always noticed how it shined off of her auburn hair. Before they got started, she would water the jar of lilies that say on the windowsill.

She would have him get the milk and the eggs, just to watch him try to balance the two unwieldy packages across the kitchen while she found the butter, cinnamon, and a loaf of bread to use.

She would let him crack the eggs on the edge of the bowl while she added the milk to it. Then she had him add the cinnamon, and would have him mix the concoction together in the big metal bowl, inevitably spilling copious amounts over the rim.

Then she would say "Oh, I forgot the vanilla! Can you get that for me?" and tousle Stiles' unkempt hair.

And he would rush off to do it. It always took a while for him to find it, because she kept it in the fridge, away from the other spices. She would take the time to actually mix the egg wash in the bowl for them to use on the bread, careful to not let Stiles see her do it.

He would, at some point, when he was older, but at that point he didn't care, because the french toast-making was more for her. The sunlight didn't glint off of her hair anymore. It would catch the colored fabric she used to wrap her smooth head, though.

Together, they would dip the bread into the mix and toss them into the frying pan, and laugh at how it sizzled. Even when she was so tired that she had to stop and lean over the counter for a few seconds, she still laughed with Stiles at that, even if it seemed a little sadder than normal.

Then the day would come that she couldn't get out of bed to help Stiles make it, so he would bring the finished product to her on a tray, and wake her up with a kiss. She would smile and hug him. Together, they would sit in bed and eat, and when they were done, Stiles would take the tray back to the kitchen to clean off her mostly-untouched food to wash the dishes. Stiles would water the lilies. 

\--

So when Derek spent the night at Stiles', which was almost every night after Stiles' dad had been taken, Stiles would get up early. Groggily, Derek would mumble at the disturbance, and Stiles would slide out from underneath a thick, sprawled-out arm, dress, and go to the kitchen to make french toast while the werewolf slept.

It was his way of saying thank you. Derek didn't have to come over each night. But he did anyway, because he understood what Stiles was going through, even if the human never really acknowledged it in a spoken way. 

"Wake up sleepy-wolf."

"mnghmm."

"C'mon, it's time for breakfast."

"Mmhnm, okay."

Stiles would always come back with two plates, and rouse the werewolf with a soft shake. Somehow, in the time that Stiles was gone, Derek always managed to sprawl out across Stiles' side, face buried in the human's pillow with his arms wrapped around it. It would always pull at Stiles' heart to see alpha so peaceful. And he never woke fully on the first try.

So Stiles would sit down on the edge of the bed, and place one of the plates in front of Derek's nose, knowing that the werewolf had not choice but to listen to his nose. The peaceful look would usually last for a few minutes after he sat up, the imprint of the pillow etched upon his face, eyes still crusty from sleep, dry line running from his mouth where he had been drooling unconsciously.

They would eat in Stiles' bed, Stiles talking a mile a minute about literally everything, and Derek just eating, listening, and eating some more. On the occasion that Derek asked how Stiles learned to cook so well, the human got all quiet, and told Derek the story about Sunday mornings.

After that, Derek would scoot closer to the human as they ate, letting a bare, broad shoulder brush up against Stiles' lean one.

\--

But even that was a long time ago. Back before either of them even knew what they meant to each other. Back when their lives were tied together by the string of events from one horrible occurrence to the next. Back before Stiles got his dad back. Before Scott got his mom back. And before Beacon Hills once again became a (relatively) sleepy little town with only the occasional unexplained brush with the supernatural.

Now, on sunday mornings, Stiles still gets up early, but when he does, it's at the renovated Hale house. He goes down the creaky stairs and makes the same french toast he always has, enjoying the quiet as he watches the sun rise through the window, aware of the emptiness next to him. A brief pang of loneliness always takes him for a second, because he will never stop missing her.

But then he waters the lilies, which have just opened their petals from their nighttime slumber, and he feels a little happier. He carries the food back upstairs and rouses his mate as he always has.

As Derek sits up to greet him, the look of peace a more constant fixture on his face, Stiles leans down, and nuzzles his nose gently, bringing a slow smile to the werewolf's face. They kiss, and Stiles smiles into it.

"Morning Sourwolf. Sorry to wake you."

"S'okay," he yawns as Stiles hands him a plate. "Loves."

"I love you too, Der. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

Derek obliges, but not before scooting up next to the human until their shoulders are brushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading. You have no idea how much it means to me.
> 
> Here is the link to this story:  
> http://watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com/post/58027938659/katamism-first-request-for-kedreeva-the
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
> -SK

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hopefully you enjoyed the stories. The feels are supposed the end happy, I promise!
> 
> Thank you for reading. Seriously, you guys that comment and leave kudos, you keep me going. I really appreciate it.
> 
> Also, if you guys are interested, you can find all of my other Sterek/Teen Wolf-related stuff on my tumblr at: watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com
> 
> Chapter 1: "Everything That's Broken"  
> Link: http://watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com/post/57948730915/hushlittlewolf-rebloggable-by-request-and-some
> 
> Chapter 2: "French Toast and Lilies"  
> Link: http://watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com/post/58027938659/katamism-first-request-for-kedreeva-the


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